


Walkoff

by Cecilia (ceciliaregent)



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M, Yuletide 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 19:18:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceciliaregent/pseuds/Cecilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They'd fucked, once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walkoff

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pun/gifts).



It's quiet on the mound; it feels to him like not just the stadium, but all of Detroit, the vast sprawl of city and suburb and factory, has come to a halt, paralyzed, suspended in time; or maybe it's only the rushing in his ears, the lightness in his head. Somewhere he's dimly aware that it's just the zone, that after Dirks swings through the next pitch -- and he knows that's what will happen, the options have narrowed down until there's nothing left -- it will thud into Buster's glove, and he'll hear that, because he'll be done getting outs. But none of that is important, it's only what will happen, just as the whole miserable season behind him is only what has happened, and that's not important either. What matters is the now: Dirks taking a practice swing, Tim's hand curved intimate around the ball, his fingers feeling the seams, and Buster's eyes behind his mask, warm and dark and for the first time in a long time looking straight into Tim's.

*

They'd fucked, once.

Tim doesn't remember it all that well, to be honest. They'd both had more than a few beers and it's been a long time, a lot of guys for Tim before and since. It's only flashes now, weirdly overlaid with years of memories: Buster with the dumb buzz cut he'd had that night, fresh off the draft, not even signed yet; Buster in 2010, hair ruffled and spiky, cap knocked to one side; Buster this year, sober, shadows under his eyes, looking hard at Tim from sixty feet away as Tim's pitches went wild, as they went right across the plate, as other teams hit him and hit him and hit him.

Tim had spent 2008 in a daze of happiness. It wasn't like he hadn't believed it -- he'd been working his whole life for it, after all -- but it had still felt like a dream, mowing guys down week after week, in city after city, Bengie sitting back and letting him do his thing, Rags with the quiet, proud little smile Tim had started to live for, Z slinging an arm around his shoulders and squeezing tight.

They'd come back to San Francisco on Tim's win to find the high-round draft picks being wined and dined. They'd need to sign soon, sure, but they were drawing the moment out, or their agents were, and in the meantime the team was showing them what it could give them, not that in Crawford's case it had really needed to. It makes Tim smile even now, thinking about Crawford then, so handsome, but so wide-eyed Tim hadn't even wanted him.

They hadn't met before, but Tim had been aware of Posey for a while in the vague way that he figured people had been aware of him, even before the draft. When they'd announced the Golden Spikes, the beat reporters had all wanted to know what Tim thought, and Tim had flashed a smile and said something about how there could never be enough good catchers. But when the team gathered to watch the draft on TV, and Buster Posey had given a perfect interview, saying all the right things in a perfect drawl, Tim had shot a covert look at Bengie, sitting bent over his gear next to his locker, and his heart had sunk. It had been just about the only bad moment in that whole charmed season.

He had responsibilities, though, and he'd known he had to go along with the party that night, help show the kids a good time. He remembers being introduced in the dank passageway outside the locker room, looking up into Buster's perfect blue eyes and reflexively smiling with his lips closed over the teeth he'd stopped being ashamed of years before. He remembers the shock of Buster's warm hand gripping his, and how his stomach had coiled away: _not now_. He remembers the spark that leapt up in Buster's eyes, quickly shuttered, and knowing that Buster felt whatever it was that Tim was feeling--well, he had known what it was. It was just shitty timing and he hadn't wanted to admit it, there in the fluorescent light of the hallway with agents and coaches and front office guys hanging around.

Flash: getting into the cab. Flash: going into the hotel. Flash: Crawford and Gillaspie leaning crazily against the bar, laughing, Cain keeping a watchful eye on them while Tim and Eli and Buster--because there was Buster, right beside him in the booth--matched each other beer for beer, which Tim had damn well known was a mistake.

What he doesn't remember, and God he wishes he did, is just how he'd ended up with Buster Posey's hand in his hair in the alley out back, his hand shoved up under Buster's shirt. And the next thing, they'd been falling into Buster's room upstairs, and Tim guesses he'd had the sense or the luck to avoid seeing anyone on the way, because nobody, even Zito, had ever said anything about it to him.

Flash: Buster's face, his eyes wide and soft with excitement or fear, their color impossible to read in the dim yellow light of the streetlamps outside. Flash: Tim on his back on the bed, his short hair sweaty against his neck, Buster collapsed on top of him, heavy, and kissing his mouth, sloppy kisses up his neck, sloppy hands on his bare sides, his jeans shoved down around his thighs. Flash: Buster's hand on his dick, and Tim saying "hey you wanna-- you wanna--" and pulling that hand where he'd wanted it to go.

Buster hadn't known what to do, really, and Tim had been too drunk to coach him through it well, or maybe he just hadn't cared. He remembers Buster shoving into him, rough, his own head banging back against the pillow, one hand grabbing blindly at Buster's shoulders, the other one gripping the headboard. He'd screwed his eyes shut and just hung on, just took what Buster gave him, his legs wrenched apart, folded back up against himself, his whole body tense and open and wanting and pushing up to meet Buster's thrusts until he'd finally opened his eyes and seen Buster, his mouth open, squinting with concentration, something soft and surprised in the set of his jaw, and Tim had reached down between their bodies and jacked himself, once, twice, three times, and that had been it.

The next time they'd seen each other, on the first day of spring training, Tim had a Cy Young award rolling around in the trunk of his car. Their eyes had met, caught, across the parking lot in Scottsdale, and Buster had looked away, down at the heavy gold ring Tim could see on his left hand, and for more than a year after that they were never alone in a room again.

*

It happens just as he knew it would; his pitch, the swing, the miss, the thud, the silence of the Detroit crowd. They're pretty polite, nobody shouting abuse at Tim like there would be in Atlanta or Philly, and he almost feels a little bad. On the way in from the airport, leaning against the bus window, he'd watched the little houses with their neat lawns scroll by, side by side with ramshackle overgrown porches, cars on blocks in the front yards, the backdrop of grey, leaden skies, and thought about home, and he knows what a win would mean to a place like this. But he doesn't have the room; he needs it too much himself.

They're going to win tomorrow, too. Tim doesn't know if everyone knows it, or if it's only from the zone, the way he can sometimes see six batters ahead, possibilities spreading out and narrowing again. But it's true; it's easy, Fielder and Cabrera and everyone else going down meekly in order like dominoes, as if all the drama of the season had been washed away a week ago by the pouring rain. Whatever the details are, Matt will pitch well enough, the offense will get something done, and the pen will shut everything down. Tim wishes, a little, that he could be in on it; two and a third tonight means he's out for tomorrow, and then they'll go home, and he'll go home, and he's got no idea what next season will mean for him.

*

Tim doesn't lie to the press a lot; it's too complicated keeping track of the stories. All year he'd talked about his control, his velocity, the mistakes he'd left up over the plate, standing for what felt like hours in front of his locker, with his hood pulled up around his head, letting them see how miserable he was. He hasn't been to confession since the seventh grade, but he remembers it feeling pretty much like this: the shameful burn of describing all the things he'd done wrong, the knowledge that it was worth it if it meant they'd stay focused on _this_ set of sins and never realize there was something much bigger he wasn't saying at all.

What he's not lying to them about lately, though, is different from what he's been not lying about all season long. He doesn't want to talk about the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach when Rags had told him what he already knew, no start in the first round, maybe not ever. He doesn't want to talk about the disaster in St. Louis, or describe what it was like to be sent to work out with the relievers and to know that everyone was watching him with pity. He doesn't want to talk about next year. It's simpler to tell the truth, to say that he's happy for Barry, that the adrenaline rush makes it easy to go in and keep throwing the ball until Bochy or Rags claps him on the shoulder, that he just wants to do whatever he can to help the team win.

A month ago, though, and for months before that, what he wasn't lying about was Buster.

*

He tries not to show anything on his face as he comes down into the dugout, but it feels so good, for once, just to throw the ball and know it'll go well, and as soon as he's past the stairs he lets himself smile. The bottom of the order's up, so Buster's not hustling to pull off his gear, and they get to the cooler about the same time. "Nice work," Buster says, and knocks him on the shoulder, gently. He meets Tim's eyes and smiles a little, and suddenly it seems like he's standing really close, before he bends down to fill a cup.

"Thanks," Tim says. His whole body feels alive, electric. It's the weirdest thing about middle relief, throwing thirty pitches and stopping. Usually by the time he gets pulled he's close to wrung out, his hair dripping, but tonight he feels like he could go back out for another ten innings.

He waits it out through the ninth, Romo shutting the door, and does some press, too keyed up to speak right but glad to have only good stuff to talk about. After, he's walking back with Vogey, and that's why he winds up outside the door of the family room, where he usually never has a reason to go. It opens right about the time they get there, and a little blond boy comes running out; Tim reacts instinctively, scooping the kid up before he can get far, and only then realizes it's Buster's kid, and that Buster himself is right behind, the other twin perched on one hip.

" _Lee_ \--" Buster's saying, and his eyes catch Tim's, startled, but immediately warming again, that same warmth Tim had felt earlier, the same look he hasn't seen in what feels like years.

*

Tim doesn't know, really, what's gone wrong, which makes it hard to solve. They've never been close, not like Buster is with Matt and Jer or Tim himself with Z. _Hard to be friends when you're afraid to go out together_ , Tim thinks ruefully. All that first spring in Arizona, Buster had found a seat at the other end of the bar, stayed in on nights Tim had gone out dancing, brought his new wife along when the pitchers and catchers went out to eat. They hadn't worked together much on the field; Buster was too new and they mostly had him with the guys he'd catch in San Jose or Fresno that year.

But once a week or so Righetti'd had Tim throw to him, or else to Bengie, with Buster carefully watching, his eyes shadowed under his cap, and Tim had felt Buster's gaze hot on the turn of his hips, the cock of his shoulders, the flick of his wrist, and had to turn his mind off like it was a game and not a practice before things got really embarrassing. It had helped to narrow his focus on Bengie and to think about how Buster looked in the batting cage, so good that the vets in the locker room were convinced they'd see him again by the end of the year. Everyone liked Bengie, and it's not like any guy is ever a sure thing, so the talk had been pretty quiet, but it was definitely there.

Buster had gotten his cup of coffee, all right, catching Tim that fall in a tough loss, one of the seemingly endless series of 1-0 and 2-0 games he'd pitched since he got to San Francisco. Tim had said what he always said to the press, a mistake he'd made here, a slip in control there, just a couple of runs but not enough, not good enough, and when they'd finally left and he'd turned back to his locker to grab his headphones and shut everyone else out, he'd caught Buster's eyes on him, several lockers down.

Most of the guys had slipped out by then, nobody interested in hanging around after a loss that hard. Buster had still taken a couple steps forward, cleared his throat. "Sorry," he'd said.

Tim had shrugged. "Not you," he'd said, as casual as he could. It was true; Buster had done fine, corralling all of his pitches, calling pretty well. He hadn't hit, sure, but then, nobody else had either. It wasn't a good idea to let that stuff sting.

Buster shrugged back. "Yeah," he'd said. Then all of a sudden he'd been looking everywhere but at Tim, eyes flicking away to one side, to the other, and opened his mouth again. "I," he'd started, and Tim had cut him off as fast as he could. Buster had made it plenty clear he didn't want to do it again, and it had been pretty dumb in the first place. It was the last thing Tim had wanted to talk about in the locker room after a shutout, or, really, ever, at all.

So, "it's cool," he'd said, waving the hand with the headphones. "Happens." He'd met Buster's eyes at that, and he guesses Buster had gotten the point fine, because he'd nodded slowly, and left Tim alone to jam his phones over his ears in peace.

After a while, being determined not to be weird had turned into mostly really not being weird. Tim had eyes, so he looked at Buster sometimes, at the slim white strip of skin between his hairline and his tan when he'd just gotten a new buzz, at the square competence of his hands wrapping a bat handle, at his strong thighs flexing in the weight room, at his face turning up to catch the afternoon sun, and every now and then some detail from that night, the feel of Buster's hands on his shoulders, or the ache of the bruise he'd found on his collarbone the next day, floated into his mind. And sometimes he just knew, without even turning his head to check, that Buster was looking at him too.

But after Buster was up for good, after that first terrible August when Tim had wondered if he'd ever win a game again without Bengie back there, after the new slider and September and then October, after they'd learned without ever saying a word to use the friction between them, the way Tim startled when Buster touched his shoulder, his side, his hip on the mound, to win games instead of blowing them, after all of that, he wasn't lying when he told the reporters that they were like brothers. They'd fought and scratched at each other like brothers, and then they'd fought other teams like brothers, all the way through the postseason until the end, when Buster had lifted him off his feet on the field and Tim couldn't remember ever having been that happy in his entire life. If there was a wariness behind Buster's eyes, if Tim held back from talking about anything but pitching, it hadn't mattered; the warmth between them was working.

This year, though, something had been wrong from the start. Tim had been so glad to get back to camp, to see the team again, Buster walking around without a limp. But when Buster had settled in behind the plate on the second afternoon and Tim had thrown his first real pitch of the year, it had dipped and spun and leapt right away from Buster's glove.

Everyone had laughed -- sure Timmy, great control, more of that -- and after ten minutes it was going better, sure. But when Tim's feeling especially grim, now, he thinks about that pitch and winces, like somehow if he'd kept that one down and moving in the zone, the whole season would have been different.

He hadn't, though, and it hadn't been. Better and worse days, but mostly worse, with his fastball slow and his command nonexistent and reporter after reporter wanting to know what was going on. A whole season of loss: games, control, the team's trust, his own confidence. A month or so in, he'd been starting to get really freaked out, to be afraid that this time he wouldn't be able to fix what was wrong, and one night in May he'd been messed up enough that he'd actually gone and knocked on Buster's door. He'd never done that, ever; if they needed to talk, they did it in the clubhouse, or on the bus.

Buster had raised his eyebrows when he found Tim, a few beers to the wind, on the other side of his door. "What's up, Timmy?," he'd said, settling against the doorframe, not inviting Tim in. He'd looked tired and tense, little crow's feet standing out against his eyes.

Tim had run his hand through his hair. "I--" he'd started, not even knowing what he was going to say next. But just at that moment a group of the guys had come down the hall, laughing and shoving at each other on the way to the elevator, and somewhere back in the room Tim had heard Buster's phone ring with the tone Tim is pretty sure belongs to his wife. And Tim had felt stupid, standing in the brightly lit hallway, and known that Buster couldn't do anything about his shitty fastball. Buster had a whole team to lead, four other starters throwing the ball well, little kids running around, and an hour with the trainers working on his ankle every day. And Tim wasn't going to invite himself in if Buster wasn't going to ask.

"Nothing, no big deal, sorry," he'd said, and left. He hadn't heard Buster's door close until he was most of the way down the hall.

*

They get off the bus at the hotel with a kind of suppressed buzz. They can't go wild tonight, they've got a game to play tomorrow, but it's going to be hard to settle down and sleep. The guys that brought their wives will probably stay in, but Romo emerges from a conversation in Spanish to elbow Tim as he's going past to grab his bag and tell him to come down to the hotel bar. That sounds good, a couple of beers, some way to try to wind down a little, maybe keep the openness he's feeling for a while. The zone is fading but it's still there, that presence to the moment he's in, knowing what's happened already, knowing that it doesn't count. There's only the now, only the next thing, the strands of possibility becoming more and more limited the more moves he makes.

He drops his bag in his room, digging through it for his phone. But he doesn't really want to turn it on, doesn't want to find out what his dad or his friends or whoever had to say about the game. He remembers Buster's hand turning, earlier tonight, impossibly graceful, pulling a wild pitch out of the air before it could do any damage, as if he had known, as he couldn't have known, where it was going to go.

Tim runs a hand through his hair, glances at the mirror. He looks ok, a few layers of shirts bulking him up a little, a couple of necklaces he likes, his hair falling neatly into a part. He grabs his hat from the dresser, slides the room key into his pocket, and heads for the door. When he opens it, Buster's standing on the other side.

It startles him, and his head jerks up, body pulling back instinctively as if there's some kind of threat. "Sorry," he says, right as Buster says the exact same thing.

*

Tim can't remember where they'd been, that late night in May when he'd stumbled away from Buster's room, some nameless city where he'd taken yet another loss, sent another dozen pitches spinning in the dirt two feet in front of Buster's glove, bouncing up and glancing off his body. He can't remember where they'd been a day or two later, glancing at Buster in the showers and seeing shadowy bruises on his chest, his arms. He can't remember, either, where they were when Buster pulled him aside in the locker room, not even taking him into a separate room but right there with half the team to keep an eye on them, and told him he wanted Tim to quit thinking and throw what he called for, every time, and Tim had told him no fucking way, frustrated and upset and not interested in hearing it on a day when his slider was the only thing he could keep in the zone and even that he'd hung, a home run in the second inning and sent to the showers in the fourth, dripping with exhaustion and shame.

He hadn't tried to talk to Buster again, and Buster hadn't tried to talk to him. Even on the field, Buster stayed behind the plate, letting Rags come out instead, only joining them when he was beckoned for. It had felt like throwing to a block of ice, Buster's eyes narrowed on him every time a pitch went wrong. Tim didn't know if anyone had asked Buster before Bochy finally switched him to Hector, but he knew everyone could see how they turned away from each other in the locker room, the spark between them buried beneath the cold.

*

The hallway seems just as quiet as the mound did earlier, although Tim's dimly aware of Pagan horsing around with his kids at the end of the hall, tossing the littlest girl onto his shoulder. There's the usual bustle around the elevator as guys start heading down to the bar, still bumping fists and laughing a little wildly, like they can't quite believe it even as they know it's really happening for them.

Buster looks at him now, in the hallway, and it's the way he used to look at Tim, a little wary and shuttered, but with that light underneath that's been missing all year. It's how he glanced at Tim when he grabbed that pitch out of the air tonight, grinning like it was kind of funny instead of glaring like he'd done in May; how he'd looked earlier at the park, saying, "thanks," and holding out his arm to take his son from Tim. As if he was feeling what Tim was feeling, the surprising relief of working together again, all those months of wondering if he'd ever be able to throw a pitch that Buster didn't hate. As if he were feeling how good it was to forget about everything else, the press, the crowd, the umpire, the batter, and just focus on each other.

"Thanks," he says again now. "For grabbing Lee. He learned how to turn doorknobs and...." he trails away, waving one hand.

"Sure," Tim says. There's a little pause, a fraction of a second. That's not what Buster came to say.

"And I wanted to say, congratulations," Buster says. "You've been--you've been really great, we wouldn't be here, you know."

Tim isn't sure that's true; if he hadn't done what he's done maybe someone else would have stepped up. But it feels good to hear Buster say it, more, somehow, than to hear it from Boch or the beat reporters or even the other guys, like he really _could_ pretend the season had just started a few days ago, so he doesn't even roll his eyes, wave the compliment away. "Thanks, you know, you too," he says instead, and he hopes Buster can hear that he means it, hear how much it means to him that Buster's gone out of his way to say it.

But that isn't really it either, the reason Buster is there in the hallway instead of just pulling him aside in the locker room or on the bus. The zone's still there, the weird open feeling of connection between them, and Tim knows that he's got to just wait for whatever Buster really wants to say; and he's right, it's only a few seconds until Buster says, "Uh, you want to, I was thinking about getting a beer."

"Sure," he says, and pauses. "I was going down, Romo and--" he waves at the elevator bank.

But Buster shakes his head. "No," he says, "can I--" and he's looking over Tim's shoulder, into his room.

It's surreal, having Buster in his hotel room, the lights too dim to see what's in his eyes. Tim gets a couple of beers out of the minibar and pops them on the counter, handing one over to Buster, and they clink them like champagne bottles, taking a swig apiece. Buster doesn't move to sit down and neither does Tim, so they're standing there, in the middle of the room, and the air between them is thick with the same charge that had been there before, the same shock Tim had felt when Buster had touched his arm. This is why they don't do this, don't go into each other's rooms, and definitely not when they've just won maybe the last game they'll play together this year.

The silence is getting too long; Tim knows he has to say something, but instead he realizes that they're standing just as they did the morning after, four years ago, when they woke up still half-drunk, dressed, and faced each other awkwardly, Buster at the foot of the bed, Tim almost backed into the hallway, his head splitting and already knowing it was gonna be an awful day. "I'm not--" Buster had said, finally, and Tim had said "Yeah, me neither," real fast, and that had been a hell of a lie, but it was one he was used to telling.

What he says to Buster now is, "I am."

Buster's eyes go wide and dark, and Tim can see he knows exactly what that means. "I--Tim--" he says.

Tim cuts him off before he can say anything else, anything like "I was drunk" or "I never did that before," which Tim knows is true but really doesn't need to hear right now. That's the past, and it doesn't matter. "I know," he says, just to say anything, although he doesn't really know what Buster was going to say exactly, and he doesn't really know what Buster's deal is.

But whatever's been wrong with them, and whatever had been going on with Buster then, they won't sort it all out tonight. He looks at Buster across the room, and he suddenly remembers a kid he'd played against a lot in college, a kid who'd had his number when nobody else did, hit him what felt like every time he came to bat. Tim barely remembers his face, it's been so long, but he remembers what it was like when he stood on the mound in the Seattle mist and finally felt in his bones that he was gonna send the guy down. All the possibilities narrowed down to one.

"I really want to -- to kiss you," Tim says, knowing that this is why Buster is here, whether he'd ever say it himself or not, even if Tim himself can't quite say what he means, and watches Buster's mouth drop open a little, in shock or something else, but he doesn't back away.

"Just -- just tonight, just because -- it was good to throw to you again," he adds, and he's a little surprised to find that even though it sounds kind of lame, it's the truth. He's not looking to break up a marriage or turn Buster queer or even do it again next season. Things have been so strange between them, too much coldness and tension to make up for in a dozen innings of relief work and a one-night stand. But tomorrow, Tim won't be pitching to Buster, or to anyone at all. Tomorrow, there'll be a big champagne celebration, and then they'll scatter, and who knows what the next year will bring, whether they'll ever be as close as they are right at this moment to acknowledging what's been between them. Tomorrow, they won't be alone, and Tim is suddenly so grateful to Buster, despite all the weirdness of the season, for showing up tonight, for making it possible for Tim to ask.

He can't stop looking at Buster's hands, square and rough from his gear, or at his mouth, at the lush curve of it, the chapping at the corner of his lips. The air feels thicker and thicker around him, his stomach tensing with anticipation, and he watches Buster swallow, watches his throat jump, watches Buster look away to put his beer down on the dresser beside him, deliberately, one click, and then Buster looks up and says, "OK," and the sound comes roaring back into Tim's ears.

"OK," Tim says back, sounding almost surprised even to himself, and suddenly all the tension in the room is gone. Buster's shoulders soften, and Tim feels his own lighten as the pressure lifts away. His mouth is curving up, the stupid grin he can never seem to help. Buster's game face is much better than Tim's, but Tim's spent a lot of time looking at Buster's eyes and he can see the light behind them now. If he said something outrageous now, Buster's cool would break, and he'd be giggling like a kid, getting that weird patchy blush he gets sometimes, color high on the back of his neck, on his cheeks where his beard won't come in.

But Tim's never really been great with words, and when Buster says "OK," back, again, and does smile a little, almost helplessly, shrugging everything else aside -- instead of pushing it Tim just steps forward and puts his hand on Buster's side, sliding his hand between Buster's jacket and his t-shirt. The fabric is warm and soft against his palm, his fingers and he likes the way it feels, the live shift of Buster's skin and muscle right there beneath it. He reaches around Buster to set his beer down on the dresser, freeing up his other hand, and doing it brings him in closer, pressing him for a moment against Buster's chest.

Standing so close, he has to tip his head back to see Buster's face, and he does, Buster's hands settling on his waist. Buster's color _is_ up, but the atmosphere in the room is changing again, the tension seeping back in a new way, filled with anticipation; they're doing this for real, doing what Tim guesses they've wanted to do all along, ever since the very first day, and Buster doesn't look like he might laugh anymore. Instead he leans down and kisses Tim, and thank God, then, they don't have to talk at all.

It's been a while. Tim just hasn't felt like it for ages, all through the terrible summer, and having someone else's hands on him, someone else's body warm against his own, feels so good that he gets really into making out. Buster's lips are chapped, soft and rough at the same time, and he's into it really quickly, pressing his tongue into Tim's mouth, hands roaming down to grab Tim's ass and lift him up, then bending forward a little, mouthing along Tim's jaw and down, his stubble scraping against Tim's cheek, his chin, his neck, before coming back up and kissing him again.

After a while, though, Tim's breathing harder and so is Buster, hands slipping beneath each other's shirts, Tim's thumb running inside Buster's waistband, feeling Buster hard against his thigh. Then he feels Buster's hand hesitate as it runs over his stomach. For a split second he wonders if Buster's going to back out and feels a quick flash of something that's almost like anger, but before he can even begin to pull a real thought together Buster runs the hand down until it's on Tim's belt buckle.

"Oh yeah," Tim says against Buster's throat.

Buster laughs a little. "Yeaaaah?" he says, drawing it out slow and grinning at Tim, who grins back.

Tim pulls his shirts over his head, flinging them randomly away, while Buster toes off his shoes, undoes his own belt, his jeans, pulling them open and peeling them down his hips. It looks too good, he looks too good, and Tim's hands are on him again before he can get too far, undoing the buttons on Buster's shirt and pushing it open, bending forward a little to kiss Buster's throat, his collarbone, his right pec, his hands still working at the lower buttons, Buster's cock, freed from his jeans, pushing forward against his hip. He feels Buster shudder a little when his tongue lands on a nipple, and he likes the way that feels, so he does it again, licking two fingers and using them on the left one while he licks at the right, swirling his tongue around again and again, feeling Buster's cock jump whenever he uses his teeth.

He's got something else on his mind, though, and he stops after a while, flicking his fingernails against Buster's nipple just to see him jump one last time. It feels so good, so right, just to be doing this and not worrying about what's going to happen, and he can't help smiling again as he walks Buster a couple of steps back, Buster's jeans tangling around his thighs and making him awkward, until they run into the bed and Buster has to sit down abruptly to keep from falling back. Buster grabs at him on the way down so that Tim stumbles forward, Buster's mouth landing just above his waistband, Buster's hands on his ass again, and Tim lets him mouth along the skin there for a moment, the warm wet trail he leaves making Tim shiver as it hits the relative chill of the air in the room, before pushing Buster gently back by the shoulders and sliding down onto his knees.

Buster's thighs are heavy, thick, more muscular than Tim remembers; they even feel firmer as he strokes his hands over them, using them for balance as he settles on the carpet. As long as he's down there, he bends all the way over, sliding Buster's jeans down his legs and off, mouthing at Buster's left ankle, at his hairy shin, then up to his knee, and he tilts his head back and grins at Buster. Tim's hair falls forward around his face as he leans in, then, and Buster's hands come into it, smoothing it back, thumbs stroking across his forehead, his temples, and then he has his mouth on Buster's cock and he hears Buster suck in his breath, feels Buster's hands tighten briefly in his hair before he relaxes again.

"Yeah," Buster says, or maybe groans. "C'mon."

Tim smiles to himself, a quick, secret smile. It's nice to feel like Buster needs something from him, for once. He's good at this, and he likes it; he doesn't make Buster wait too long before he stops licking around the head, up the shaft, and just pulls him in, Buster making little noises but mostly just breathing hard, not saying anything else. He settles one hand around the curve of Buster's hip and pushes his other hand down, sliding it over the front of his jeans and pressing it over his cock, just holding steady while he sucks Buster, enjoying the weird feeling of swallowing past his gag reflex, letting Buster's cock slide in and out of his throat.

Buster's hips are pressed flat against the bed and he's doing a pretty good job of holding them still, but his hands are roaming restlessly over Tim's hair, his shoulders, one pausing briefly to cup the back of his neck, tugging him closer and he's mumbling, "Tim, yeah, yeah," again and again. Tim closes his eyes, swirling his tongue around Buster's cock, feeling the pulse jump, and wishes he could do this and see Buster's face at the same time. Are his eyes closed, or is he watching? Does he have that dazed, stupid look Tim half-remembers from before? He still smells mostly like the shower, the strong soap all the visiting clubhouses stock up on, but the richer smells of sex are starting to break through and Tim likes it, slipping his mouth to Buster's thigh, his balls, for a minute, just so he can breathe in the scent, feel the texture of the loose skin there, using his hand on the smooth skin of the shaft. He can feel, though, that Buster's getting close, and the hands in his hair are getting more demanding, and he slides his mouth back, stretching his throat around Buster's cock again and taking him down, and down, and down, until Buster's hips jump and shudder uncontrollably and he's coming in Tim's mouth, hot and salty and it's just so good to feel that, to swallow quickly, compulsively, to hear Buster gasping out "God, ohmygod, Tim,  _fuck_ ," above him, that Tim has to take his hand off his own cock before things get too out of hand.

He stands up instead, pulling quickly at his belt, the fly of his jeans, shoving everything down and off together. Buster's collapsed back on the bed, breathing hard, one hand touching his own nipple where it's still reddened and raised from Tim's teeth earlier, and after a minute he opens his eyes and smiles at Tim, just as he's undoing his watch, dropping it on the nightstand.

"C'mere," Buster says, sliding back on the bed until he's all the way on it, and Tim goes, kneeling in the space between Buster's thighs and letting Buster pull him down for another kiss. This one doesn't last so long, though, before Buster's pushing him off, taking him by the hips and rolling him over until he lands on his back, half-propped against the million pillows hotel beds always seem to have.

Tim lets his knees fall open, his left leg tensed and bent, his right knee sprawling on the mattress. Buster fits his hand over it, and Tim drops his head back, eyes shut, throat open. He's hyper-aware, like this, every nerve straining to feel what Buster's going to do before he does it, the stir of his movement in the air, his thumb rubbing in little circles on Tim's kneecap, his hand sweeping down Tim's shin and squeezing his ankle. He lasts about a minute before he has to shift, just, to _move_ , and he rolls his shoulders and opens his eyes.

"Hang on," Buster says. "Lie back, ok?" He squeezes Tim's ankle again, and Tim groans, but he does it, eyes open this time. The mattress dips a bit as Buster shifts over, kneeling between Tim's spread legs; Tim's stomach tenses up in anticipation, and then Buster just looks at him for what feels like a long time, at his cock, at his chest, at his face, and Tim tries to just lie still, but he can feel the heat rising in his cheeks. He's not sure how long he can do this; Buster may have all the time in the world, now, but he--but just as he's going to say something, Buster reaches out.

Lightly, using just the tips of his fingers, he touches the inside of Tim's thigh, high up towards the crease where the skin is thin and pale. Tim gasps, his thigh jumping and trembling, and Buster strokes harder, then lightly again as soon as he's settled down, gotten used to it. It's nothing, hardly a touch at all, and pretty soon Tim can't keep still under it, hips twisting and rising as Buster uses his fingertips, his nails, Tim's own hands knotted in the sheets to keep from pushing Buster away.

"Jesus, come on," he gasps at last, and the look of intense concentration on Buster's face lifts and lightens as he looks up and meets Tim's eyes. Everything feels clear and uncomplicated, nothing unsaid behind Buster's expression, and his eyes are crinkling up.

"Just hold on," he says again, and Tim is about to protest when Buster sits back on his heels and grabs Tim's wrists, folding his palms over them, his strong fingers up Tim's forearms, pressing them against the bed, and then he leans forward and takes the tip of Tim's cock into his mouth, and Tim chokes on his own breath.

God, it feels good, his wrists pressed against the mattress, his hips rising up, digging his heels into the bed, his whole body alive and focused right on Buster's mouth. It's so good, Buster's tongue swirling around the head, stopping that to lick in stripes, that Tim wonders what he's been doing the last few years, how much practice he's had, before Buster lets one of Tim's wrists go so he can use that hand to touch Tim, wrapping firmly around the base of his cock, and Tim has to close his eyes, and decides that it's not relevant; they're here, now, and there's no reason to worry about anything else.

He's starting to feel it building up, the base of his spine, his shoulders, tension in his neck, his whole body drawing together. Buster must feel it too, because he lets Tim's other wrist go, and for a minute he pulls back altogether, and Tim bangs his head back against the pillow, at the sudden feel of the cool air on his cock. It's worth it, though; Buster grins at him, taking each of Tim's hands in one of his, bringing them to his mouth and licking the thumbs and forefingers, then moving them to Tim's nipples. He looks up to meet Tim's eyes, pressing Tim's fingers down and around until Tim gasps. "Leave them there," he says, and then he licks his own hands and puts one back on Tim's cock, one down to cup his balls, and wraps his mouth back around the head, and after that it's all Tim can do to hold still, Buster's hands light and firm on him, his tongue at the slit, and pretty soon Tim's whole body is drawn up again, and he hopes Buster can feel it, because he's too far gone to say much and he can't use his hands to pull Buster off, and at that thought, he's coming, harder than he has in months, Buster's name in his mouth.

*

They don't really sleep, but it's easy to lie there for a while after, kissing lazily every now and then but mostly just enjoying the bed, the stillness, legs tangled together, hands resting curved over each other's hips. Tim knows Buster will have to go soon, back to his own room, to his family, and he's suddenly so tired, himself, finally drained of the energy that's throbbed through him all night, ever since he got the call to warm up. He knows, dimly, that it's going to be a long winter of work, that they haven't fixed all their problems tonight, that they may be fighting again the first time Tim throws a wild pitch in the spring. But it feels good to lie here, now, to be in the moment, Buster's eyes warm on him from a few inches away instead of sixty feet, and Tim figures they can put all the rest of it off for a while. First, there's another game to play, and then, he knows in his heart, although it's bad luck to say it out loud, there'll be a parade.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [sophiahelix](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiahelix/pseuds/sophiahelix/works?fandom_id=26538) and [crimsonkitty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonkitty/pseuds/crimsonkitty/works?fandom_id=26538) for their heroic eleventh hour beta work, as well as for a season's worth of friendship, obsessive analysis of the catching situation, and X-rated discussion of Lincecum's yoga routine. None of the excessive semicolons which remain are in any way their fault.


End file.
